


Misdirection

by chiiyo86



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Antagonism, F/M, POV First Person, Post-The Cruel Prince, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-28 18:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiiyo86/pseuds/chiiyo86
Summary: Cardan puts into practice something the Roach taught him. In the game he and Jude are playing, there is no petty victory.





	Misdirection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boudour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boudour/gifts).



> Hey, so it took a while, but here it is! I really hope you enjoy it. <3

_Each evening, you will meet me in your rooms before dinner, and we will discuss policy._

Out of all of Jude’s commands to me, this is the one that gives me the most trouble. Her other orders are basic protection for herself, ways for her to ensure that I can’t turn against her and that she can manipulate me as she pleases. In the game we’re playing, the commands are a fair move according to faerie standards. What need would you have for a puppet king that can stab you in the back because you’ve left a gaping loophole in your faerie bargain? Not that I would stab her in the back under any circumstances. I’m many things, but I’m not a murderer. It’s my one saving grace, if you will. I would make a very bad murderer, anyway. I have no taste for blood—witnessing the demise of most of my family has only confirmed it. 

Jude’s command about meeting in my rooms is in turn tedious, uncomfortable and thrilling. Tedious because, well, _politics_. Do you know how many Courts are under the High Court of Elfhame’s rule? How many courtiers curry the High King’s favor? How many would like to take advantage of the current instability to depose me? Jude knows, and will tell me at length. She will explain all the minutiae that running a kingdom involves, things that I know she’s just learned herself. Her lectures remind me of the ones I received from my brother Balekin, which is why I tune out most of it. The words are water sliding over my skin. I do not care. I do not care about anything.

“Are you listening to me, Cardan?” 

I love the way she says my name, like its two syllables are knives that she wishes she could stick between my ribs—like out of all the words in her sentence, my name is the only one with true meaning.

“My apologies,” I say, smiling in a way that will tell her that I’m not apologetic at all. “My attention has drifted. Why do I need to know all this, anyway? You must keep your instructions simple or your puppet king will get its strings tangled.”

A muscle in her cheek contracts as she grits her teeth. She takes a sharp breath through her nose. I have exasperated her—I exasperate her just by breathing, but there are different stages to it, and I’m a master at getting her to a point where she wishes she could slit my throat. She wishes it, but she can’t. She needs me for her master plan. This is the thrilling part; it’s also the uncomfortable part. We are in my rooms, which used to be the rooms given to my father’s most unimportant lovers, the ones who were too insignificant to merit the status of consort. I wonder if Jude knows about it. My father, the late High King of Elfhame, fucked many people in this very room, fucked them and then discarded them. Because he could, because why be the High King if you can’t treat others like gowns to be worn one time and then put away at the back of a wardrobe? I don’t know, I feel like there’s a certain poetry to Jude and I being here together, but I’m not sure she would appreciate it.

“Just pay attention,” she says after a moment, during which she undoubtedly contemplated more biting replies and more violent actions. “You have to be able to at least _pretend_ to be a king.”

Oh, yes, _pretend_. Fortunately, I’m excellent at pretending. “Of course,” I say. “Please go on, I’m all ears.”

She goes to a table and spread out a document. This is a letter sent to me by some inconsequential courtier whom my father banished from the Court long ago, and who is trying his luck with the new High King. Jude is highly suspicious of this demand, probably for good reasons. She’s always afraid that someone—someone _else_ —might try to bind me, or kill me. I very much approve of her fear for my safety, of course. I would prefer not to be killed as such a tender age. 

Jude talks and talks, and half of my attention is on what she’s saying, while the rest is on _her_. She’s overworked, that much is obvious. Running a faerie kingdom is a lot for a mortal girl, and she doesn’t even get to enjoy the fun parts—the dancing, the drinking, the debauchery, the people fawning over their sovereign. I don’t feel bad for her; this is her carefully laid bed. I still watch her closely. Her complexion is sallow and deep purple shadows are smudged under his eyes. Her hair looks dull, hastily gathered in a braid that she’s pinned to her head, and strands of it curl against the nape of her neck. She has a pimple on the side of her jaw. It’s small, but it draws the eye, because faerie skin doesn’t get blemished like that. She would hate it if I pointed it out to her, would hate the reminder of the many ways she falls short of faerie perfection. How angry do I want her to be with me? There’s a balance to that kind of thing. I like the thrill of annoying her, the flutter of excitement it sparks behind my ribs, but even though she can’t get rid of me yet, she could make my life truly unbearable. She has abstained so far, only taking necessary precautions, but I can’t underestimate the depth of her anger and hatred. 

“Cardan.” She thrums her fingers against the wooden surface of the table, calling for my attention. “I swear, it’s like talking to a toddler.”

I grin at her, unwilling to let her see that she has touched a nerve. Balekin used to often say that. He’s in the Tower of Forgetting, now. I shouldn’t think about him, and I shouldn’t let Jude get under my skin—any more than she already has, at least.

To unnerve her I move closer, standing at her back and leaning over her shoulder to look at the document she’s presenting. Her clothing, like her face, reflects her state of overwork. Her severe dark coat is wrinkled and the last silver button at the bottom is only hanging by a thread. It dangles when Jude shifts her weight from one foot to the other, obviously getting tense and uncomfortable with my closeness. I take a breath and smell human sweat and lemony verbena soap. 

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m reading the document you brought.”

She clicks her tongue in irritation. She knows _I_ know that’s not what she meant, but it would humiliate her to admit out loud that she’s bothered by me standing so close, so she doesn’t. She says something along the lines of it being better if I grant an audience to the courtier, who used to be close to my brother Dain but had a fall out with him. Either the courtier is happy with my brother’s fate because it gives him a chance to come back to the Court, or he still feels some loyalty toward Dain and it’s better to keep your enemies close. Oh, don’t I know it.

As she talks, my eyes are still on the dangling button. One of the goods things that came out of me becoming a puppet king is the lessons I get from the Roach, who has taken it upon himself to train me as a spy. If Jude considers me as a disposable strawman, the Court of Shadows, for their part, have welcome me as one of their own. It’s hilarious, since they used to be Dain’s spies and would probably have killed me without batting an eye if I’d gotten in their master’s way, but it’s also pleasant in an unfamiliar way. I was never a good prince and I’m a joke of a king, but I seem to be gifted at spycraft. The Roach, the Bomb and the Ghost treat me like no one ever has before. No awe or fear, no disgust and contempt either, and no disdainful indifference. I’m just like them, doing things in the shadows that the world at large must know nothing of, and they acknowledge it without a fuss. 

One of the things the Roach is training me in is sleight of hand. I have a knack for it, or so he says. My eyes on Jude’s button, I wonder: what if I could steal it from her? What if I could pluck it right from her coat without her being aware of it? Something as small as a button, unworthy of anyone’s notice—and yet, if I could take it from hypervigilant Jude, what a victory that would be! Misdirection is key, the Roach always tells me. If you want to get away with something, you need to make sure that your mark’s attention is on something else. 

I lean closer, until we’re almost touching, and I say to her ear, making sure that my breath tickles it, “You have a pimple on the side of your jaw.”

Her hand raises to it, so quickly it’s probably instinctive. “I don’t feel—”

“Not there, on the left.” When she touches the left side of her face, I laugh and say, “Oh, my bad, did I say left? I meant right. You had it right the first time.”

At the same time my arms circle her waist loosely, careful not to touch. With one hand I take the button and with the other I pinch the thread so Jude won’t feel the sharp tug. The thread snaps and the button, now freed from its bond, falls into my palm. I withdraw my arm right as Jude rubs her jaw, flushing angrily. 

“If you’re looking at my pimples, then you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.”

“You wound me.” I press a hand against my chest, then drag it down to my pocket so I can drop the button in it, unnoticed. “Of course I’ve listened to you. You were saying that I need to accept that courtier’s request for an audience, whether or not he turns out to be a foe. Better the devil you know—isn’t it what the mortals say?”

She narrows her eyes, as if wondering whether an imp has whispered the right answer to me.

“What are you up to?”

I laugh, giddy from my petty success and the heady power of her full attention on me. “What, me? What would I be up to?”

“I don’t know, but you look awfully happy with yourself.”

She’s noticed my mood, but not the missing button on her coat. “Of course I’m happy with myself. Isn’t annoying you a worthy purpose on its own?”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. I can tell that she finds the answer plausible and that her suspicion is fading. Her weariness replaces it and she wipes a hand across her brow. I don’t feel bad for her. She wouldn’t be tired if she hadn’t decided to take over a kingdom and used me for it. 

“Let’s get back to work,” she says. “The quicker we’re done with it, the sooner we can be rid of each other.”

“Right.” My giddiness is receding, and I plunge my hand in my pocket, fingering the button to try to get the feeling back. “I hope we’re done soon. Wine to drink, people to debauch. You know how it is. It’s hard work to be the High King.”

I expected an eyeroll, an exasperated clench of the jaw, but instead she looks at me as if she’s hearing something else behind my words. I feel a flush coming and I step away and around her to look at the letter. “So, is there really anything else to get from this? I think we’ve said all there was to say about it.”

 _I’ve stolen a button from your coat and you didn’t see it,_ I think at her, daring her to divine the thought. _I win this round._ No victory is ever too small. I’ve learned that a long time ago.


End file.
